


His Fastest Friend

by Ma_Kir



Category: The Flash (TV 2014), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: Barry Allen - Freeform, Eobard Thawne - Freeform, Gen, Time Travel, the flash museum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-31 00:28:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12120606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ma_Kir/pseuds/Ma_Kir
Summary: A man wants a boy to have his happiest day. To him, it is as though he had never existed.





	His Fastest Friend

2161.

The afternoon sun shines on symmetrical chrome, and hovering vehicles through the clear air of the biodome. It's been a while since I've been here, but I remember all of it. 

Especially today.

The Flash is everywhere. As he, or she, or they should be. This is their day, after all. There are men and women dressed in red costumes and wearing helmets of Hermes. There are more than quite a few yellow Kid Flash costumed heroes walking around, eating some vintage imitation hotdogs: especially given that pigs and cows went extinct a few centuries back. But the Flash Museum is pulling all the stops today. 

After all, it's Flashpoint. 

I'll bet, back in the day, the Flash believed I made up that term just to mock him, and the mistake he made. And maybe I did. But the best jokes come from truth, I find. 

Perhaps, in the end, the greatest joke is ultimately on me. 

It's an event organized by Central City and the Flash Museum. Think of it as something of a Retrospective. Even now, the faculty at the Museum doesn't know who the Flash even is, never mind when he was born, or on what day he finally accessed the power of the Speed Force. But they do remember something of the first day in which he arrived: when he debuted in Central City, and started to fight the criminals and the metahumans. And that is good enough for them. 

It has been a while. Time slows down to a crawl as I move through these living mannequins: the Flashes, the Jessie Quicks, the Kid Flashes, the pilots, the gunslingers, and a rainbow cornucopia of imitation Speedsters, their parents, their spouses, their children, and all the vendors and exhibits. I move towards the corner of the crowd outside the Museum, time creeping like molasses, making a being like Turtle look like a speed god by comparison. I know I will find him here. It has been a while, but you don't forget these things. You don't forget the things that matter.

Even after all this time, it still matters. 

And I find him. I revert out of hyperdimensions, but I manage to keep myself in a low vibrational field: just enough to remain inconspicuous: to become part of the background. I don't know why I'm doing this, at this stage. But I guess, when everything's said and done, I just want to watch. Even now, despite everything, I want to see how it happens.

The boy is ten years old. He has a mop of sandy-blond hair. And he's dressed like Kid Flash. His little yellow mask leaves room for his blue eyes and cheekbones, and for his hair. He must have spent all of his credit allowance from his parents to purchase that silly suit: with its too big red gloves. He tugs the gloves back into place, one by one, and the belt that divides the yellow torso of his suit from the red pants. His blue eyes dart back and forth cautiously, nervously ... with a great deal of suspicion. 

His parents aren't nearby. He has no friends near him. 

He's all alone. 

He walks towards the crowd. He watches them play with their hoverboards and eat the imitation vintage food. Other costumed families stand in front of holographers and have their poses recorded into photons for all eternity: a little Jessie Quick eating her ice cream cone for all time. 

I could do it. I could do it right now. But I need to see it. I need to see the moment when it happens.

"Pardon me, son." A voice says, nearby. "Is this the Flash Museum?"

The boy looks up. He squints at a man in a red costume. He's tall and dressed as the Flash. The boy fidgets and worries at his lip with his front teeth.

"Well, obviously." The boy says. "It's, like, right there. Literally. How can you miss it?"

"Yeah." The man says, putting a hand over his eyes and looking out at the crowd. "How _can_ anyone miss that, huh?" He looks down at the boy. "A lot has changed since I was here last. Hello there. I am the Flash." He holds out his hand. 

"Heh." The boy turns his head away from the other's outstretched hand. "You and everyone else here."

"Well, what can I say? I have different versions of me in every timeline." The red-costumed man laughs and puts his hand down. "It can be very busy work." 

"I'd imagine." The boy says, turning away from the man. "Simultaneously existing in multiple timelines all at once would probably overload your synapses. The Tachyon radiation alone would damage your mnenomic cells." 

The man dressed as the Flash stares at the body for a few moments. I see his mouth hang open. The boy is so casual in how he explains it all, but I can tell that little bit of trivia makes him feel a little sense of superiority in how he holds himself. "Wow. Where'd you learn all of that?"

"Basic Quantum Mechanics." The boy replies. 

"That part of your schoolwork?"

The boy considers. Then he shakes his head. "No. That's on my free time. You can read all those factoids at the Museum."

"I'll bet." The man kneels down to the boy's eye level. "Say, are you waiting for your parents?"

"No." The boy says quickly, dismissively, even bitterly. "They don't like to 'waste time' at these kinds of events."

"So you are here all alone?"

The boy scoffs, but he eyes the crowd and the Museum again. "I have my biotic security system. And there are authorities around. Probably some of them are in costume. I'm perfectly fine. If anything, I shouldn't even be talking to you." He gives the man a piercing look. "My parents told me never to talk with strangers."

"Of course." The man nods. "But I am not a stranger. I'm the Flash. Tell me ... what is your name?"

The boy draws a foot behind him. "I should think it obvious."

"Right." The man replies, shaking his head. "You're Kid Flash."

The boy nods, but adds nothing more. 

"Well, Kid Flash." The man says. "Do your parents know you're here?"

"They can monitor my biotic security system." The boy repeats, annoyance creeping into his tone as though he detests repeating himself to any intellect lesser than his. 

"But do they know where you are?" 

The boy does register the man's knowing tone. His face, under that mask, probably looks as amused as mine. "Well ..." He says, not wanting to show off, but desperately wanting to. "My system is on, but ... it's possible that they might be pinpointing the signature at Gene Therapy."

"So, you're not where you're supposed to be either."

The man and the boy exchange a knowing look. The man holds out his hand again, this time from a position of equality and eye level. "I'll be honest with you, Kid Flash." He tells the boy. "In this timeline, I am with the Museum. You know how that Temporal Displacement Syndrome works sometimes. Messes up the brain."

"Of course." A corner of the boy's mouth quivers underneath his mask, but does nothing more. 

"Right. So, as my sidekick in this timeline, I think we need to blend into the civilians of this period. I'll keep your cover if you keep mine."

The boy considers it. Then, slowly, he nods. "Fair enough, Flash." He tells him. "However, I still can't go with you."

"I see." The man says. "Well, you still think of me as a stranger in this iteration. However, there are a few points in my favour. First." He points at one of his fingers. "You know who I really am. Second, I technically work at the Museum since, you know, it was built for me. And third." He draws his third finger in. "I am Central City's hero, and as such am ... something of a responsible authority. But lastly ..." He draws in his fourth finger. "I think I'd be a little strange if I walked around here without my sidekick. My foes would ... know something was up, and they'd realize it was really me. I'm on a top secret assignment. And I need the help."

Something glitters in the boy's eyes as he looks at the man's outstretched hand. I know what it is. It's something basic. It's something you can never forget. It's caution but also hunger: a deep need to connect with something greater than yourself ... something that you desperately wish you had contact with, that you could be ... 

"Very well, Flash." The boy says, his grave voice betrayed by the trembling of deep, childish excitement. "I'll keep your cover."

"Excellent." The two shake hands. "Let the mission begin."

I follow them as they hold hands and walk through the throng around the Museum. Their mission is simple enough, it seems. Most of it is the Flash showing Kid Flash joys of early aughts junk food, arcade games, and watching holographic representations of the Flash's battles with his enemies. At one point, they even watch a race between different child Flashes as their parents and guardians cheer on. I watch the boy's face. That sneering condescension, masking that sheer loneliness, melts away. It's gradual, and I don't think he notices it happening. I think the Museum worker does though. The man wearing the Flash costume is clever. He knows exactly how to talk to the boy. He's probably done this a million times before. It's part of his job after all. Even now, I can't help but admire it. 

They're talking with each other as they go. The Flash is telling the boy some of his greatest fights and travels, and the boy -- Kid Flash -- asking him all kinds of questions about physics, and time, and what his favourite costume actually was. 

And then, finally, they come to a Digital Photo Booth. This is definitely vintage technology. The two of them are munching on some imitation Big Belly Burgers, as the booth operator takes out an antique digital camera and snaps a picture of them. The Flash kneels down behind Kid Flash and wraps an arm around his shoulders as Kid Flash smiles -- genuinely grins -- at the camera. You can tell how old and nostalgic this all is. It isn't even from a Third-Dimensional Printer, or a holograph, but a flat, slick plastic photograph churning out of a specialized analogue. 

The owner asks if the boy wants it put into a frame. And he nods. It is a gaudy thing: a colourful red and yellow frame with balloon letters. I remember what the words say. 

And my moment is coming soon.

He's happy. I can tell. It's mid-afternoon, and the chromatic tops of the city are shining in gold. Kid Flash tells the man that he needs to go home soon, though you can tell he really doesn't want to. But he wants to get some cotton-candy first. He pockets the picture frame, and you can see how much he treasures it. And this day. The man nods, patting him on the back, and watching him walk away. It's funny. I suppose seeing this from another perspective, it would have been hard to spot that one detail. 

I move fast. Faster than I have ever moved in my life. 

The boy has turned his back to me. But there is no way he would have seen me coming. I've revisited his life, so many times. I removed his overbearing younger brother. I eliminated the people who tried to get in the way of his dream. I even arranged a convenient accident for his controlling parents. I don't know how many times I've intervened for him exactly, after getting revenge on the woman that continually spurned him. 

I've tried, you know. But you only get so many chances, so many opportunities to make mistakes, until it all becomes so meaningless.

I'm glad I don't have to look at him when I phase my vibrating hand through his back and right through his chest. Now the boy won't have to live to see his hero hate him. Now he won't have to live through the sheer heartbreak of never being able to change his fate: no matter how many times he tries not to be the villain, and giving into the impulse of being the opposite -- _the reverse_ \-- of everything he thought he loved. Now he won't have to see the moment where his dream finally dies. 

He gets to die happy. That is the only thing I could ever really do for him.

I think I hear someone scream behind me as I speed away. And I move. 

The dead travel fast. I feel my existence unraveling, my molecular structure disintegrating at a fundamental, subatomic level. But for the first time, in my entire life, I feel free. I'm finally free of him. Something jolts me out of the Speed Force. 

My back impacts a wall. We are in an alley. I'm scattering into dust motes, my existence unwritten by time. It's the man from the Flash Museum. He rips off his mask and I see him. Crying. 

Of course it would be him ...

"Why!?" He shouts at me, tears screaming down his face. "Why did you do this ..."

I struggle with a pocket in my suit. Barry Allen's face follows my movements as he watches me cease to exist. Exhaustion turns into relief and until one final jolt of venomous spite in my heart as he sees me take out the object.

"I ... win." I tell him as the darkness takes me. He made me, and I made him. It's only fitting that we are both erased together. 

Of course, it is never that simple. The Speed Force won't have it. 

When I come to, I'm surrounded by energy. I can tell that I'm back in the Speed Force. But I'm not moving. Or perhaps I'm moving too fast. It is all the same in here. There is a field around me, following me, keeping me in one place. 

Barry Allen, the Flash, stands in front of me. I look away from him. I have nothing witty to say. I'm tired. I am so tired of this. He places something down at my feet, in this Speed Force prison. He looks at me for what seems to be centuries, and then walks away. 

I manage to bend down and look at the object. It is a picture of the Flash, and a young boy dressed in a crude Kid Flash costume: holding a Big Belly Burger. On the frame, in red and golden balloon letters, are the words "The Flash's Fastest Friend." My hands grip the frame. I curl in on myself, clutching in against it. I'm thankful to him. I hate him. I wish I was dead. I wish I'd never existed. 

I'm glad that I have this back. 

 


End file.
